When Everything Crumbles
by Amaya Ramiel
Summary: When Mary dies unexpectedly, John refuses to acknowledge his grief. It's up to Sherlock to help John face his pain. One-shot, slight ooc, h/c. Please r & r.


**When Everything Crumbles** by Amaya Ramiel

DISCLAIMER: If it was mine, I'd be rich, and wouldn't be here. Still, a girl can dream.

A/N: Sorry if the characters are slightly OOC. Just something that popped into my head and wouldn't let me sleep until I wrote it. Plot bunnies and all of that... actually made me teary eyed. R & R, hope you enjoy.

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><p>The high pitched crying woke Sherlock up. It took the detective a moment to remember that he wasn't in his usual room at Baker Street, but in John's home. After the sudden death of Mary Watson Sherlock had taken temporary residence in the Watsons' place, even though John insisted that he was fine. Listening to the constant crying that was currently cutting through the silence of the flat was proof that John was anything but 'fine'.<p>

Sherlock swung his legs from the bed and quickly excited the guest room, heading toward the source of the wailing. As he walked down the hall, he couldn't help thinking of John and how the doctor had been trying so hard to appear in control, and how terribly he was failing. Oh, he projected a calm exterior to anyone who didn't know him, but Sherlock could not be fooled so easily. During and after the funeral John had barely spoken, and when he did it was in short, curt half-strangled sentences, holding himself ramrod straight and hardly making eye contact with other people. And what had surprised Sherlock the most was that John hadn't cried. Not around him anywhere at least, but the younger man had been attentive during the past week, and he knew John hadn't faced his own grief yet.

The consulting detective could solve any case, find any murderer, expose any tricks, but even though he knew John was breaking, he found it difficult to convey support and empathy. It wasn't that he did not feel them, for Sherlock discovered that it pained him greatly to see John in this state of sorrow, but he could not find ways to express that comfort to his friend.

Sherlock paused outside the door, steeling himself for what he imagined he would find inside. Slowly pushing the door he made his way into the room, dimly lit by a single nightlight on the left-hand wall. The doctor stood with his back to the door, shoulders tense, rocking back and forth, the source of the crying held tightly in his arms.

At the sound of Sherlock stepping into the room John turned his head suddenly, revealing red-rimmed sleep-deprived eyes.

"Did we wake you? I'm sorry, it's just that I, … I can't get him to fall asleep" – he whispered desperately, looking to Sherlock like a lost child. John shook his head once again, rocking the wailing bundle gently from side to side. "I don't- he chocked, - I don't know what's wrong. He's been fed and changed, but he won't stop crying." John looked like he was close to crying himself, but he was holding back, just like he'd been holding back for the past week. He averted his eyes from Sherlock's to look down at his son.

Sherlock didn't want to see John cry, he generally did not understand emotions well, yet he knew that it could not be healthy, for a normal person that is, to bottle their emotions like John was doing. He supposed it was partly his fault. John knew of Sherlock's aversion to sentimentality, and was therefore putting up a brave front. Also, Sherlock reasoned, there was the military background to consider. Overall, John Watson was just as reticent about showing emotions as Sherlock was about acknowledging them. Still, he did care for John, and he would be damned if he let the man destroy himself by bottling up his grief.

Judging the situation, he decided the most pressing matter to address was little Michael's distress. The reason behind it was obvious, even if the poor doctor had been unable to identify it. Crossing the nursery in two strides Sherlock was at John's side in an instant.

"May I take him?" he whispered as gently and softly as he was able.

John looked at him with a frightened and surprised face, part reluctance and part pleading, and his arms tightened fractionally around the child. The doctor had, of course, loved his baby boy since the moment of his birth, but since Mary's untimely passing, he had demonstrated an almost fierce over-protectiveness over the babe. He simply refused others to take him, and had only allowed Sherlock to hold him on few occasions when his hands had been otherwise occupied, like during the funeral. Sherlock supposed this paternal instinct was borne out of losing Mary, and the fear of losing any more loved ones, and he therefore felt honored of being one of the few people John trusted with his baby.

"Please, John, let me help." Sherlock stared deep into John's eyes, extending his arms toward the child. With a shaky breath, John nodded quickly and reluctantly passed the baby to Sherlock who deftly cradled the three-month-old against his own chest, one arm under the infant's body, and one hand holding his head. Taking a step backwards, Sherlock begun a similar swaying motion to the one John had been employing, softly murmuring nonsensical words to the baby in his arms. Even though he was currently pondering John's situation and how best to help him, Sherlock couldn't help but spare a thought for the child in his arms. He had always thought children were mostly a nuisance, but the moment John placed the newborn in his arms Sherlock had fallen in love with the baby like it was his own. Now, slowly but surely little Michael began calming down, his cries lessening more and more until they were nothing more than occasional hiccups. A small smile graced the young man's lips as the baby nodded off to sleep once more, but was quickly replaced with a concerned look.

A half-strangled gasp had escaped John's lips. Sherlock looked up from the baby in his arms to glance at the shocked man across the nursery. John looked like his world was crumbling around him. His face revealed his poorly contained grief, and he had taken a hold of the crib next to him in an attempt to still his shaking.

"How- John took a calming breath that threatened momentarily to turn into a sob, - I…, I was doing the same thing."

The unspoken sentence, Sherlock could hear, was _He's MY son! It's my JOB to calm him down!_

Keeping his voice as soft and monotone as possible, yet looking straight at John as to convey that his words were heartfelt, Sherlock explained, "Yes, you were. However, you are distressed right now, and Michael here can undoubtedly feel your distress from your heart rate and the tenseness in your body."

John broke contact with Sherlock's eyes as if slapped, and stared at the wall opposite him now holding unto the crib with both hands as if it was a lifeline. "Are you saying I'm incapable of comforting my own child?" His voice was low and full of barely restrained emotion.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, making sure he himself kept his own heart rate steady and calm for the sake of the baby in his arms. "John, you know perfectly well that you are more than capable. But I think you are deluding yourself in thinking you are fooling anyone by pretending you're fine." Sherlock instantly regretted his choice of words. He could put on a flawless act in front of his clients and suspects, and yet he couldn't be more tactful when talking to his closest and only friend.

"You think I'm deluding myself, Sherlock? I'm perfectly aware that I am not fine. I am utterly aware – John's words spat out of his mouth, - "that I can't.., that I'm – he shook his head from side to side as if trying to make the world go away. His head hung low, and his knuckles were white from his tight grip.

"I just can't get it together, you know." – he finally whispered. His entire body was trembling, and each silent breath he took hitched slightly. John's eyes were clenched shut, 'I don't know what to do anymore'.

Sherlock could see that John was very close to breaking down, and he knew he had to get the man out of the room before he woke up his son once again. Softly he padded over to the crib and laid the sleeping child in his bed. John had opened his eyes and was staring at the boy. He released the crib's railing so that his involuntary shaking wouldn't disturb the baby. Holding his arms stiffly to his sides, John's gaze was locked on his son. Up close, Sherlock could now see the unshed tears threatening to fall.

"John", the detective whispered, putting a hand on his friend's arm and gently pulling him away. John began turning away, his breath coming in strangled gasps, and as he took a step away from the crib his trembling legs gave out from under him. Instantly Sherlock wrapped his arms around the smaller man, holding him upright even as John's hands grasped the front of Sherlock's shirt, like a lifeline.

Half carrying, half dragging him, Sherlock led John out of the nursery and into the living room where the doctor had been sleeping that past week. He had been reluctant to sleep in his own bed, the memory of Mary too fresh in his mind, and had outright refused to take the guest room and leave Sherlock to the living room. Besides, he had reasoned, the living room was the second closest room to the nursery, second to the master bedroom, which meant he could attend to Michael better.

Setting John down on the sofa, Sherlock surveyed the doctor. He had released his shirt from its death grip, but his hands were still so tightly clenched Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised to discover he had dug his nails into the palms of his hands. As he stared at him, trying to come up with appropriate comforting words that continued to escape him, he also noticed how John kept trying to draw deep breaths to calm himself.

"Stop it John."

A laugh that threatened to become a sob escaped John, "I know … I'm sorry, … I just.. I feel like I'm coming apart."

"That's not what I meant." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in desperation.

"Stop trying to stop it. Stop trying to… pretend." _Why is this so difficult? _Sherlock thought desperately.

John opened his eyes to stare confusedly at Sherlock, and he opened his mouth several times in an attempt to say something, but his throat didn't seem to want to cooperate.

"You.. you are bottling up your feelings John. You don't have to. You shouldn't."

John's face crumbled, but he still refused to cry. "You don't understand," he finally choked out, "if I don't then it means… it means…" John went back to taking deep breaths and shaking his head.

And Sherlock understood. John wasn't pretending to be 'strong', he was pretending it didn't happen, because he didn't want it to be true. He didn't want to accept it, even though he knew it. Sherlock understood what, but he couldn't understand why. And yet, at the same time, he supposed, it was similar to what he did with his own feelings. To prevent yourself from hurting, you try to convince yourself you have no feelings.

Sherlock didn't want to hurt John, but if there was something he couldn't allow John to do to himself was turn himself into Sherlock.

Knowing what he had to do, he gently placed his hands on either side of John's face, all the while dreading what he was going to say. As the doctor's eyes flew open again with confusion and panic, Sherlock took a deep breath himself and said, "I'm sorry. I am sorry, John. But you can't hide. She's gone, John. It hurts, but Mary's gone, and I'm sorry."

At first the two men remained immobile, staring at each other as though time had stopped. Then Sherlock noticed that his hands holding John's face were wet. Moving his fingers slowly he wiped away the tears but more kept falling. John's trembling had intensified, and as he looked into Sherlock's eyes, the detective attempted to convey that it was alright to let go.

Taking that silent offer of comfort, John's barriers finally came down and the next breath he took turned into a full sob as he buried his face against Sherlock's chest. Wrapping his arms around him, Sherlock simply held John, occasionally rubbing his back as John's sobs reverberated in his ears. He held him for a long time, until the doctor fell asleep against his chest. The detective laid his friend gently on the sofa and covered him with a bed sheet, and took seat in one of the living room chairs. He'd watch over John tonight, whisper kind words to him when the nightmares and memories came, and look after Michael when he woke up in a couple of hours. But Sherlock wasn't disheartened. If he had helped the doctor overcome his post-war trauma, he could help him through this as well. John Watson would be alright.

Tha End


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